More sluggish the snowy hive,
clearer the window’s crystal,
on a chair, a turquoise veil,
thrown there, carelessly, lies.
A tissue, self-intoxicated,
as if it never felt winter’s
touch, experiencing summer’s,
by its own delicacy, caressed:
and, if in icy diamonds
frost is eternally streaming,
here — it’s dragonflies flickering,
blue-eyed, living, and gone.
Медлительнее снежный улей,
Прозрачнее окна хрусталь
И бирюзовая вуаль
Небрежно брошена на стуле.
Ткань, опьяненная собой,
Изнеженная лаской света,
Она испытывает лето,
Как бы нетронута зимой.
И, если в ледяных алмазах
Струится вечности мороз,
Здесь — трепетание стрекоз
Быстроживущих, синеглазых...
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«Immortality? For you two-legged moles, / Who aren’t worthy of even a day on earth? / Perhaps — after feeling deeply offended — / Lizards, toads, and worms will want the same... Petty bourgeois with wings! Gingerbread and cakes! / They gorged themselves for half a century and now they ...»
«A simian profile / With slits for eyes; / Dumpling lips and a potato nose: / Neither a girl nor a goat. Hair like a fishtail; / No bust, more like a frying pan; / And growing from the chin — / It’s terrible, I know — a beard. Choppy gestures, long feet, / Hands twisted backward...»